


5 Times Sam Caught Gene (And One Time He Didn't)

by xysabridde



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: 5 things meme, 5 things plus one, Gen, Kid!Fic, xysabridde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xysabridde/pseuds/xysabridde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sam was there to catch Gene when he fell, and one time he wasn't. With one bolt-on scenario from the lifein1973 chatroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Times Sam Caught Gene (And One Time He Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by talkingtothesky and fern_tree. Plenty of Gene!whump for you, ladies! And a shameless self-insert as well.

  Whoever had suggested a CID dance-a-thon must have been even drunker than the participants, Sam thought as he watched Chris gyrating on top of one of Nelson’s tables, an empty beer glass in one hand, his belt in the other. Nobody quite knew why he’d taken his belt off, but thankfully his Y-fronts were more or less in place still, and they were all hoping they’d stay that way.

 

  Sam himself was carefully keeping out of the dancers’ way, a whisky beside him and Nelson leaning on the bar behind it, shaking his head slowly as Chris attempted what looked like a splits and slid off the table with a howl of pain, clutching his gonads. Ray cheered loudly, tossing half his beer down before leaping up onto the table himself and starting to do what looked like a one-man can-can.

 

  A one-man can-can that failed drastically, as Ray’s foot promptly slipped off the table and sent him crashing down onto Chris, who still had yet to pick himself up. The pub all but collapsed with laughter, various DCs clutching their sides and leaning on tables until Nelson banged his fist on the bar and everyone quietened down, wiping streaming eyes and stifling hiccups.

 

  “Alrighty, alrighty! Don’t want da lock-in endin’ prematurely when I’m arrested for mah customers bein’ drunk an’ rowdy, do I? DCI Hunt, if you wanna take da table- I’m told by a little fairy dat it’s your turn next…”

 

  Gene, who by this point had drunk enough to floor a small elephant, didn’t look capable of speech, let alone dancing, and yet there he was striding towards the table, Sam thought with only a hint of jealousy. So comfortable being king of the jungle, even when he had a beer moustache and whisky slopped down his front.

 

  “Pansies,” Gene slurred, grabbing at the table to first ascertain where it was and then clamber up onto it, staggering and swaying every step of the way. “Can’t dance f’r bloody toffee, let the master show you ‘ow it’s done… all o’ you tossers…”

 

  With some difficulty, he straightened up, feet planted on the edges of the table. Sam wondered inwardly if he was the only person in this pub thinking this was a bad idea.

 

  “Right then,” Gene hollered, flinging his arms out wide. “Wh’t d’you reck’n…”

 

  And as the first chord of _A Hard Day’s Night_ rang out, Gene stepped backwards, slid off the table, and landed squarely in the arms of Sam, who had rushed forwards to catch him.

 

  They declared the dance-off over then, before anyone needed an ambulance.

 

-0-0-

 

  Their snout had been right, and yet had still managed to drop-kick them into the shite. The moment Gene had stepped out of the Cortina, the first gunshot had rung out, and they’d all been scrambling for cover by the time the second had come and the air had been filled with shouts and explosions, dust spurting up around their feet as they sprinted towards a brick wall and skidded as one behind it, guns clutched in hands, Gene fumbling in his pocket for his radio.

 

  “Alpha One to eight-six-zero, urgent back-up required, Heathfield Road, they’re armed to the teeth an’ they mean bloody business, so tell ‘em to shift their arses because four of Manchester’s finest are about to be turned into Swiss cheese, alright?”

 

  Phyllis’ reply was cut off as Gene shoved his radio back into his coat and leapt up to fire a single shot off at the warehouse opposite, ducking straight back down as a volley was fired off in response.

 

  “Guv, stay down until back-up get ‘ere, last thing we need is you with a bullet to the brain,” Sam hissed, grabbing the sleeve of Gene’s coat and pulling him down to a crouch next to him. “They won’t ‘ang around after what you said, Phyllis’ll be in there with ‘em given ‘alf a chance. They’ll hurry just to escape ‘er.”

 

  “Yeah, but we’re sittin’ ducks ‘ere. They might come out if they realise our position.” Gene sounded breathless, flicking the safety of his gun on and off, feverish as his nails clicked on the metal. “Need something to ‘appen before they start gettin’ cocky an’ decide we’re ripe for the pickin’, don’t we?”

 

  “Gene, you go out there, it’s suicide. I’m not being bogged down in paperwork for years because you decided to go an’ get yerself shot. Come on, you know the score, just stay down, back-up’ll be ‘ere soon…”

 

  “Tyler, do you ever just accept that someone else might be right for once? The moment they realise we’re trapped, they’ll be out ‘ere an’ it’ll be a bloodbath. Back-up are Christ knows ‘ow far away. Come _on!_ ” He leapt up again, squeezing off another shot before ducking straight back down.

 

  “Guv, stop it! Uniform are on their way an’ the rest of CID’ll be with them! Just stop it, make them think we’ve surrendered an’ they’ll stay put.”

 

  “What makes you think that then?”

 

  “If we stop antagonisin’ the situation, they’ll think we’ve given up. They don’t know if we’re still armed or not, so they’ll stay there whilst they debate what to do next an’ that’ll give us valuable time that we bloody need!” Sam rocked back and forth on his heels, checking his own gun, head swerving round as though looking for an errant child. “They’ll be ‘ere in a minute, just stay calm, don’t bloody over-react…”

 

  “Who’s bloody over-reactin’?” Gene coughed into a closed fist, wiping it hard on his trousers. “They’ve got more guns than us, there are more of ‘em, they’re not pinned behind some bloody wall waitin’ for the brickwork to go on ‘em- sod this-”

 

  But even as Gene began to straighten, the caterwauling of sirens pierced the air, and the shouts of the blaggers began to retreat as a minivan full of coppers swung round the corner and burst open mid-swerve, screams of “POLICE! DON’T MOVE!” everywhere as the gang dropped their guns and ran.

 

  “About bloody time!” Gene yelled, slotting his gun back into his pocket and pushing himself up, pulling his coat closed around himself. “Tyler, go an’ ‘elp-”

 

  He stopped. Pulled the camel hair closer to himself, and swayed on the spot, as though the breeze would tip him over any second.

 

  “Gene?” Sam moved forwards, reaching out, only for Gene to collapse back into his arms, head lolling back onto Sam’s shoulder, camel-hair parting to show a shirt stained thick with blood, a single hole somewhere over Gene’s ribs as the DCI’s chest heaved, desperately sucking in what air it could.

 

  He remembered screaming for an ambulance, and he remembered holding Gene, cradling him on his lap, pressing every spare scrap of material they could find to the wound. He remembered holding Gene’s head to his chest, the coldness of his white skin, the wheeze as he gasped for air.

 

  But he never remembered the frantic ambulance ride, nor the suffocating wait outside the operating theatre, waiting for someone to come and tell him Gene was dead. It simply didn’t bear remembering.

 

-0-0-

 

  It wasn’t obvious that anything was happening. Gene had worn the same suit three days in a row, had begun retreating to the canteen between clocking-off time and pub, and had taken to sitting on his own with Sam in the corner rather than joining in with the boys’ rambunctious antics, drinking that tad more than usual, never quite needing to be ferried home. Gwen had made some offhand comment about Gene “needing feeding up” as CID queued up for their lunch one dull Thursday afternoon, but Sam had thought she was just being sarcastic and muttered something about Gene’s gut as his second helping of jam tart and custard was readied.

 

  It turned out somewhat smaller than usual. Perhaps those rumours about Gwen’s sweet spot for Gene weren’t entirely unsubstantiated.

 

  After that, he’d thought to look a little more closely. And things had started to slot into place. The stained tie from a week ago, looking as though it’d never seen a washing machine in its life, the crumpled suit shirts, the faintly defeatist attitude to just about everything that couldn’t be solved by shoving a leather loafer up someone’s arse and driving into some poor sod’s bins at full speed.

 

  Mrs Hunt had long since stopped being discussed in CID, but clearly the Hunt household was not chugging along peacefully as Gene was making out, so Sam, returning to Glen Fletcher’s advice to take the initiative, decided to pop round to the Guv’s house- alright, elbow his way in if necessary- and find out exactly what had happened, and what he could possibly do to make it better. If Gene hadn’t thrown him out by the time they got to that stage.

 

  He decided on the way to swing by the chippy. Gene wouldn’t turn that offer away.

 

  The house itself seemed fairly normal, he thought as he swung into Partridge Road and slid to a halt outside the small two-up, two-down house that Gene called home. Window boxes slightly overgrown, lawn a little scruffy, cobblestones dirty, but since when did anyone in the 70s bother to clean their cobblestones? Thinking on it, he wasn’t even sure if anyone in the 2000s had done. It seemed a relatively pointless exercise, really. But he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about bloody cobblestones, he was supposed to be thinking about the Guv and his wife, and the smell of the fish and chips was making his mouth water so he decided to go in for the kill. Figuratively speaking.

 

  No lights on, but it was vaguely light outside, the odd street lamp to help out. It was only just gone eight, after all. Still gloomy. Sam eased himself out of the car, twisting round as he juggled keys with chippy bag, locking the car and marching up towards the front door to knock twice on the peeling black door.

 

  “Gene? Guv, it’s me, Tyler. I brought fish an’ chips. Yer favourite, from the Smiley Trout. You goin’ to open up or do I ‘ave to eat it all myself?”

 

  Angling the bag, Sam hoped the smell of the chips would be wafting through into Gene’s hallway. His eye was starting to water with all the steam going into it.

 

  “Gu-uv? Wakey wakey, Guv. Or I’ll call you Genie-pie in front of the ‘ole department.” He’d taken a call from Gene’s mother to his office a few weeks ago, only passing the phone over when he couldn’t stand up for laughing at the various pet names she’d given him. ‘Genie-pie’ wasn’t even the worst. “An’ do it again when the Super comes for his weekly meeting…”

 

  “You bloody dare, Tyler,” a voice rumbled from somewhere, and Sam was more than a little surprised to see the broad shape of his DCI emerge not from upstairs but from the living room to pull the chain off, clad in old pyjamas and a threadbare dressing gown that made him look more like a hospital patient than the Sheriff of Manchester. Sam held the chippy bag up.

 

  “Peace?”

 

  “Accepted. Come in then, yer lettin’ the cold in.” Gene stepped backwards to let his DI in, slamming the door behind him and resting against it briefly, steadying himself. Sam, searching for the kitchen, didn’t notice.

 

  “OK. Where’s yer… Gene!”

 

  He only just made it there in time, the chip bag thudding forgotten to the floor as Gene pushed himself forwards and all but collapsed, straight into Sam’s arms as Sam eased his DCI down to the floor and pushed his head down between his legs, one arm around his back to steady him.

 

  “What was all that about?” Sam pressed a hand to his DCI’s forehead, running it down to take his pulse, and the sole fact that Gene let him was evidence enough that Gene was feeling like shit.

 

  “Might… need to eat something. Missus went to ‘er sister’s a couple of weeks ago, I told you, I don’t like eatin’ alone. Just got Garibaldis and whisky ‘ere.” Gene lifted his head a little way, exhaling hard as his eyes flicked round to Sam. “Where did those chips go, Sam?”

 

  “You mean… you’ve been survivin’ on canteen food an’ old Garibaldis for _how_ long? Two weeks? Jesus Christ, Gene!”

 

  “I tend to go by the latter, but either’ll do,” Gene mumbled from somewhere around his knees. “Chips, Tyler. There is a starving man in yer presence, attend to ‘im.”

 

  And the matter was dropped, as Gene carefully pushed himself up and made his way back through into the living room and to the sofa.

 

  Sam made a mental note to ‘check up’ on Gene more often, as he swigged expensive single malt and made serious inroads into his chips, one hand holding his fork, the other resting on the sofa back behind Gene, fingertips resting lightly on the old dressing gown.

 

-0-0-

 

  “BOSS! GUV! ‘E RAN THAT WAY!”

 

  Chris’ frantic pointing was to prove his downfall. Quite literally, as he promptly ran into someone’s garden fence and landed face-down in their peonies, lifting his head and spitting out a few petals as Gene, Sam and Ray all ran past in hot pursuit of their dodgy electrics fencer, otherwise known as Francis ‘Frizzy’ Bennett.

 

  At least they managed to keep sight of Frizzy’s mop, as he dodged in between shoppers and cars along the High Street, heading for the alleyways off towards the suburbs, leaving a convenient wake behind himself for CID to charge through. Sam was sprinting along in front, barking breathless orders into his radio, keeping Annie updated on Frizzy’s whereabouts, directions, ordering plod into place; Gene, behind him, was regretting the second helping of pie and chips from the canteen earlier, and Ray was regretting ever taking up smoking, as he bent almost in two trying to breathe and ended up peeling off to lean against a wall and try to remain alive.

 

  “G-geeeehhhh… get ‘im, Guv!” he yelled after his rapidly disappearing superior officers, reaching into his pocket for his hip flask. Sod Tyler’s healthy living, a man needed a good drink sometimes.

 

  Frizzy, meanwhile, had managed to find his way out to a housing estate, weaving through mothers with prams and children on bikes towards goodness knows where; Gene’s face was bright red, jaw set and determined as he matched Tyler stride for stride along the concrete pathways and through the red brick terraces, just a little too far back to see the vein standing out on Sam’s temple as he fought to ignore the burn in his leg muscles and keep up with Frizzy. The shock of being greeted by CID in his local greasy spoon certainly looked to have energised him somewhat.

 

  And then, blessed relief, Frizzy turned a corner and ran straight into a car pulling out, tumbling over the bonnet and down onto the other side as Sam leapt up and over it to yank him up and collar him.

 

  Or he would have done, because no sooner had he got his hand on Frizzy’s collar and the words “you’re nicked!” out than there was a sudden whack on his side and Sam found himself squashed as the middle of a Gene-suspect sandwich.

 

  “GENE! What the bloody ‘ell-”

 

  “Ow- oof… tried that roll thing you did, it didn’t quite work,” Gene wheezed in what might have been an apology, heaving himself to his feet with some difficulty and, slightly sheepishly, offering his hand to Sam. Frizzy, looking more than a little squashed, was left to find his own feet.

 

  Gene glared at him, eyes two white spots in his beetroot-coloured face. “You’re nicked, sunbeam.”

 

  “I noticed,” Frizzy answered miserably, rubbing his grazed face as Ray and Chris finally appeared to cuff him.

 

-0-0-

 

  After the ‘cumulative disaster’ that had been Frizzy’s arrest- Sam’s words- the powers that be had decided to encourage various members of CID to get fit. Ray was first on the list, as the only bastard who hadn’t even been able to run the length of the High Street; Chris came second, although this was slightly unfair as the garden fence had hindered his running somewhat; and Gene, who had still been panting ten minutes later, came an ungracious third, blaming his breathlessness on a serious lack of alcohol in his bloodstream. Sam pointing out that there was no scientific evidence whatsoever to back that up had been met with a pointed swig and a proferred whisky bottle.

 

  But whatever their excuses, here they were one Friday afternoon, in the gloomy dust-filled room otherwise known as Bert’s Gym, surrounded by muscled young men lifting weights and smacking the hell out of punchbags, staring round at the coppers feeling and looking completely out of place in this toned, disciplined environment. All except for Sam, who was practically high as he demonstrated what exercises he wanted to see the team doing, for how long, and how they should be feeling afterwards if they’d been doing it properly and not slacking off like he suspected they would but _hoped_ they wouldn’t, given how important the team’s physical fitness should be…

 

  Gene felt like using him as the punchbag instead just to shut him up, but instead found himself presented with a leather monstrosity held together with masking tape, hanging patiently a few inches in front of his nose as he slid his gloves on and stretched a little, arms up and over his head, relishing the faint burn in his muscles as he readied them for action. He wasn’t such a bad boxer himself, had won a few bouts in his youth. Maybe if Poncy-Pants Tyler saw him pummel the hell out of this bastard, he might think twice about making Gene do this again.

 

  “Right then,” he muttered as he leaned one leg back, balanced himself on the other, and put every ounce of energy he had into his first swing.

 

  The resultant _thud_ made everyone in the gym turn and stare. Sam sighed, pushing Chris back into position and heading over to pick Gene up from his new position on his arse.

 

  “The idea is to hit the punchbag, not see ‘ow fast you can divide air.”

 

  Gene raised one boxing-gloved fist, which Sam took as his cue to return to Chris.

 

  _Right- no-one gets the better of the Gene Genie. Especially not something not even bloody alive._ Gene raised his fists again, jabbing a few practice swings just short of the punchbag, fixing his mind back into the old familiar routine. _Focuss. Legs just the right distance, stable… one fist back, the other at the ready, defensive- HIT!_

 

  The punchbag swung violently, jerking back again as Gene delivered a second punch to where the midriff would be, a third to the head, then to the midriff again, making sure the bastard was nice and winded before an uppercut. He’d be down by now, gasping on the floor as Gene stood over him triumphant, but no, although the masking tape was starting to peel away he’d staggered up and was still raring to go as Gene dodged a single blow and started raining them down himself, working up a proper sweat now, jabbing and smacking and dodging as he leapt round every blow his opponent saw fit to throw at him with ease, ears filled with the roaring crowd, applause growing louder and louder and louder as his strikes grew harder and quicker and he was winning, winning, Sam behind him egging him on with every blow, Gene Hunt was champion, had beaten every scrap of competition to claim the title of-

 

  One foot gave way beneath him on the damp mat, Sam’s arms snatching at him as he fell, yelping at the spear of pain in the ankle twisted beneath him, then at the thud in his face as the punchbag took its revenge.

 

  “Bloody ‘ell, Gene. I said work ‘ard, I didn’t mean to the point of exhaustion.” Sam all but dragged him over to the bench and sat him down, lifting his ankle and peeling his sock down to expose tender skin to his touch. “Yer nose is bleedin’, there’re tissues in the bag.”

 

  Gene snatched them out and wadded them to his stinging nose, hissing under his breath as Sam hitched his ankle up and slid his trainer off.

 

  “Think it’s best if we postpone the rest of this session. I’ll give you an ‘and out to the car, Guv.” Sam moved to prop Gene up as the two of them eased themselves to their feet, tossing his bag over to Chris. “See if Phyllis ‘as some proper ice packs back at the station. Might be some crutches in Lost an’ Found, we’ll be interviewin’ Frizzy in there anyway.”

 

  “I’m buggered if I’m usin’ crutches, Tyler,” Gene muttered, hopping alongside his DI. “That bastard Frizzy’s lucky ‘e wasn’t born a punchbag.”

 

  “Punchbags aren’t bor- oh, never mind. Sorry, mate, ‘e slipped on the mat, think it’s best we take ‘im back to the station for some TLC from one of the first-aiders.”

 

  Bert Lancaster, having come out of his office to see what the disturbance was about, grinned, exposing several missing teeth as he reached past Sam to hold the door open for the pair as they hobbled out into the sunlight.

 

  “Oh, Hunt?” he called after them as they reached the Cortina, squinting out from his place in the doorway. “You ‘ad some good training there, technique was perfect. Should come back an’ teach my lads a thing or two sometime. I promise we’ll dry the mats off first.”

 

  Tipping his cap to Gene, he retreated back to his dingy office, shaking a fag out of the pack in his breast pocket. Gene couldn’t help a little smirk as Sam levered him into the passenger seat of the Cortina, closing the door on him and heading round the bonnet for the driver’s side.

 

  “Gene!”

 

  “This is my seat, Tyler! You think I’m lettin’ a fairy like you drive my car, yer very much mistaken. Now ‘and us the keys, Gladys- oh, don’t look so surprised, you’d be surprised at the contortions I’ve learnt in the Cortina…”

 

-0-0-

 

  _Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If Dad sees you’ve been crying when you get back, he’ll wallop you again, and if he decides to hit Mam and Stu as well then it’ll be all your fault because you couldn’t stop crying. Don’t cry, you’re eight now, you shouldn’t be crying like a bloody baby, you need to be tougher, maybe if you’re tougher Dad won’t hit you any more._

 

  And maybe, if he repeated it over and over to himself enough times, it might actually happen, he might actually be tougher. Gene wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt, ignoring the mess of snot and tears and blood now smeared over his clothing, tugging his coat tighter around himself as he stumbled along towards wherever his feet decided to take him. Which looked like the playing field so far. At least Dad didn’t know where the playing field was.

 

  He had to stop crying. The other boys would crucify him if he was crying.

 

  Gene bit the inside of his mouth hard enough to make it bleed, hard enough to make the tears dry up. Perfect. Licking the blood from his cheek, he headed for the playground area, hands in pockets and head bent to hide his tell-tale red eyes as he plopped onto the tyre swing and began scooting himself backwards and forwards, picking at a scab on his knee.

 

  Mam wouldn’t be expecting him back until dark, not after such a going-over. His whole body felt sore, the fresh wounds and bruises beneath his clothes aching and stinging; he swiped at a fresh trickle down from his hairline, shaking his hair down to cover it as the gate into the playground clanged and the shouts of Daniel West’s gang filled the air, fading gradually as they emigrated to the climbing frame and left Gene in peace. They were probably used to seeing him alone, outside at all hours. Gene hated the gangs, hated them for beating him and Stu up whenever they could just because they didn’t belong to any of them. No gang would let them in for fear of facing Stephen Hunt’s wrath, and therefore they simply turned on them instead, because in Stephen’s book, his boys needed the fighting to toughen them up.

 

  Gene closed his eyes and prayed that his mam had had the good sense to placate Dad with whisky and escape upstairs with Stu. If Stu was still in the house as well.

 

  “Hunt!”

 

  He raised his head wearily, bruised hands tightening around the rope of the tyre swing. Some wannabe brawler was pointing his way, face lit up in glee, and from the look on Daniel West’s face, he was contemplating how one-sided a fight it would be if it were Gene Hunt against the six or seven lads in his gang. And very much liking it.

 

  Gene threw himself off the swing and ran, blindly and furiously, up the hill towards the gate and stumblingly back down again as Daniel West yelled “COWARD!” after him, shoving the gate open and bolting through it, towards the alleyways, back towards his house because he didn’t know any other way to go, they would gain on him if he headed into unfamiliar territory and he couldn’t let that happen, didn’t have the energy to survive another beating. Everything was hurting so bloody much and he didn’t want this anymore, couldn’t they all leave him alone, he could beat every single bloody one of them in a fair fight but six on one was never going to be fair, close to home, almost there-

 

  His foot caught on a cobblestone, sending him flying into next door’s dustbins.

 

  He must have lost a few minutes, he wasn’t quite sure, but when he opened his eyes Daniel West and his group were gone, and there was a fresh trail of blood from his forehead, down into his eyes and over his cheek as he eased himself up and swiped at it with his sleeve. A lot of blood. Mam would be worried if she saw him like this.

 

  Dad might have gone to bed by now, or passed out in his armchair. Clinging to the pathetic hope that he might be safe, Gene pushed himself to his feet and limped in the direction of his house, one hand held to the cut on his forehead, the other pinching his arm so hard he had to bite back a whine at the sting of it.

 

  If he didn’t cry, if he was strong, then maybe things would be better. But he didn’t dare hope.

 

-0-0-

 

And a silly bolt-on one:

 

  Today was one of those rare good days. The sun was shining, birds were tweeting, Norbert ‘Nancy’ Andrews had been collared playing seedy gay pornos to a group of mackintosh-clad men in Rusholme, and Gwen’s niece had given birth to a little girl named Sarah, which meant that steak and chips was on the menu for lunch, along with home-made treacle tart and the finest custard Manchester had to offer. Tyler had taken himself off to the Collator’s Den and was looking happy as Larry at having organised all the Safety in the Workplace files- not that there were many- and was now having a lovely chat about psychology with Annie in the canteen. Even Ray and Chris were looking perky, Ray having got lucky with a bird last night and Chris having been given a whole boxful of old Marvel comics by one of his cousins.

 

  He was just striding out to the Cortina, destination the off-licence near his house for some more whisky, when something connected with his foot and with a surprised yell he found himself flat on his face in front of his beloved car.

 

  “Bloody-”

 

  “Sorry, Gene. It was either you or Philip Glenister, and I didn’t want to trip him up because I was worried his agent might sue. Anyway, blame the comm because they suggested it. Got to go, I need to yell at Sky for postponing Mad Dogs Three, so adios, Auf Wiedersehen, see ya around, all that kind of stuff.”

 

  Gene, having just about struggled up onto his elbows, just managed to catch a flash of red hair and a GENE HUNT APPRECIATION SOCIETY T-shirt before whoever they were had vanished.

 

  He looked everywhere for one of those T-shirts afterwards, but never found one.


End file.
